Boris D Schleinkofer

End Eight Boris D Schleinkofer

These are the ends of the world; we are at them, they are at our throats. Whether or not we choose to shout ourselves awake from these nightmares is up to us. Dear fellow Traveler; Though we may be separated by thousands of years, I cannot find enough space to put between us. The heat of your touch still lingers where the flesh separates and turns to dirt, and smoulders there with the sting of love's decomposition. Yes, I understand that you'll know an awful lot about how things break down. It's what you do. It's *all* you do. Truly, I will never forget you. I know that you'll hope I will. As this world falls apart around us, I trust that this letter finds you in good spirits, as I never *ever*, ever wish to meet with you in these bodies again. I don't know if you'll be a different person when next we meet, and we will. I don't know either if I will recognize you, as I'm sure I'll be very different then, too. And I'm uncertain whether that world will be a different place, one in which we could get along side-by-side while not tearing each other apart. How wonderful could this be if we weren't pitted against each other so often in mortal combat? I cannot be certain that either of us would ever come away again as whole people if once more we clashed as lovers, as enemies, or even as total strangers--but I know with all surety that there would only be pieces remaining. Of this I am *very* sure. I myself would make sure of it. Masonna can't dig herself out from under all the dead, Dennis can't help but join them, and Old Man Grampus just keeps adding to their numbers. Every little tweak, every little corrective course-change, every dodge and avoidance brings them further out of balance and closer to the inevitable collapse. Across the span of ages, our problems remain the same in new and ever more exotic fashions and the same old extinction awaits us at every turning of the Great Big Wheel. NO ONE HAND TURNS THE WHEEL; ALL HANDS TOGETHER STOP IT